The Crossing
by saralinda
Summary: Post HBP story, now AU : After Dumbledore's death, Snape decides to protect Draco Malfoy and Madam Rosmerta by hiding them in Salem. The Imperius Curse, however, has taken a toll on Draco and Rosmerta. Snape/Rosmerta
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **1) I originally wrote and posted this on FictionAlley after HBP; now, obviously, it is AU, but I liked it enough to put it here. (I took most of my stuff off FA).

2) I think I'm the only Snape/Rosmerta shipper in existence. :(

* * *

The sky grew darker. The wind moaned around the porch railings of a hunting shack that stood on the edge of the salt marsh. As the storm approached, the desolate little cabin seemed about to be swallowed by the swollen purple thunderclouds. They tumbled over themselves as though they were racing to block out the few early stars.

Suddenly, a different form appeared in the roiling sky. A spectator on shore might have mistaken it for a flock of gulls or a shred of mist driven by the approaching squall. A closer look would have revealed an airborne shape that was moving more slowly than the wind would have allowed. Then came the rain, pelting the waves and drumming on the roof of the shack.

The strange drifting form came, too. As it neared shore it began to solidify. By the time it reached the channel marker, it had formed into the shape of a ragged and battle-weary privateer. When it was about twenty-five yards from the marsh, the words _HMS Pursuit_ formed distinctly across the stern. Silent, shrouded figures manned the rigging and the decks as they had done in life. Then, just as mysteriously as it had come, the _Pursuit_ dissolved into a fog that hovered just above the waves.

The sound of men singing echoed distinctly in the air for a moment, before the wind mingled it with the other noises brought by the squall. The mournful clanging of the channel marker pierced the air as the spectral mist dissipated. Three human beings were left struggling in the waves where the ghost ship had lingered.

The first, a man with long black hair, was retching seawater and treading desperately to keep afloat. He pushed his strangling locks out of his eyes and mouth and grabbed at the teenaged boy floating beside him. The boy's pale blond head was silently slipping beneath the black water. The man fumbled at his sodden cloak and ripped it from his body. After freeing himself from the heavy fabric he was able to hold the boy's head above the waves more easily. The boy was naked from the waist up; he did not seem to be breathing.

A woman treaded water nearby. She, too, discarded her cloak, and began to swim slowly toward the shack. She was the first to reach the deserted place. Scrabbling up the muddy marsh bank, she grabbed hold of an old grey porch railing and hauled herself to safety. She sprawled exhausted and dripping on the rough boards and watched the man drag the pale boy toward her.

The waves grew more violent as the man struggled toward the safety of the little cabin. Swallowing water, he vomited and gasped for air. He dropped the boy, who disappeared beneath the surface. Choking out a curse, he dove and came up with the pale head next to his. He struggled desperately to keep afloat, but a large wave swamped them and they both went under.

The woman watched the swirling water from the safety of the porch. She was fair, with grey eyes and wavy blond hair. Her soaking clothes clung to a curvaceous figure, and in her hand she spasmodically clutched a blue, high-heeled shoe. When the man and boy vanished beneath the waves, the vague expression on her face did not change. When they reappeared a few yards away, the man clinging desperately to a broken lobster trap float with his free hand, she continued to stare at the spot where they had gone down.

The dark-haired man kicked hard, dragging the boy until he could grab hold of the edge of the porch. Grunting, he hauled the boy halfway up the bank before reaching the end of his strength. The boy coughed and gagged up great quantities of seawater, then lay still.

"Rosmerta," the man gasped to the woman on the porch. She looked at him and said nothing.

He rested for a few minutes, maintaining his hold on the boy's arm with one hand, grasping a hassock of sea grass with the other. The storm grew more violent, washing over the two stretched out in the mud. Shards of lightning leapt to the north and east, briefly illuminating the dark sky.

Inch by inch, the man began to pull himself the rest of the way up the bank. The porch railings were slippery with rain, and he found it necessary to let go of the boy in order to gain the relative safety of the shack. Leaning over the edge, he managed to take hold of one of the boy's arms and somehow lifted him up to the porch.

The nearness of the man and boy seemed to waken Rosmerta from her fit of disinterest; she recoiled from them both. Rising, she tried the door of the shack. It opened with little complaint, as though glad to admit human visitors once again. She moved inside and closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

The dark-haired man stumbled to his feet to follow her, but hesitated when the boy beside him emitted a sharp moan. He slowly sat up, rubbing his head and coughing.

"Draco," the man said, his voice still hoarse from the salt water. He knelt beside the boy.

"Professor Snape? Are we in Salem yet?"

"Hardly. The _Pursuit_ could only take us to the spot where she went down, two hundred years ago."

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere off Cape Ann, or so the sailors told me. It was hard to make out what they were saying towards the end of the journey."

"I thought that was the end of everything," Draco whispered. Dark shadows encircled his eyes like bruises. His face looked nearly as ghostly as those of their spectral crew. Coughing, he spit a mouthful of fluid over the side of the porch. "Is Rosmerta here?"

"Yes. If you hadn't insisted on taking her with us, we could have Apparated."

"You should have tried Apparating anyway."

"A transatlantic Apparation with two Side-Alongs? The chances of failure were too high."

"For a great wizard like you? For the man who killed Albus Dumbledore?"

Severus Snape hunched his narrow shoulders beneath his dripping robes as he considered the boy before him. Fear colored Draco Malfoy's aristocratic features, matching the near-hysterical tone of his voice as he spoke Dumbledore's name. He was half-naked and shivering, and his white blond hair was plastered to his head. Draco's right hand self-consciously covered the black mark that Snape knew was etched on his left forearm.

Snape turned to the cabin door. "Remember who I killed him for," he spat.

Pulling a wand from inside his long black robe, he opened the door. The inside of the shack was littered with debris and odds and ends. Bird droppings covered the floor. Rosmerta crouched in the corner, her face partially obscured by her damp hair.

Snape leveled his wand at her. "Get up."

She didn't move.

"Madam Rosmerta, you will find this an infinitely more pleasant experience if you get on your feet now. If not, I will be forced to do something that I would rather not do." He tried to make his hoarse throat produce the threatening purr that had terrified his students for so many years, with some success. Rosmerta raised her head. Her face was expressionless.

"I killed Dumbledore."

"I think you'll find that I killed Dumbledore, actually. In spite of Malfoy's bungling around with Unspeakable curses."

"What did he make me do? What did I do?" Her face was growing wilder, and she broke into a wordless moan. It echoed eerily through the cabin, punctuated by the thud of rain on the shingled roof.

Snape strode forward and jerked her to her feet. The effort cost him, but he was relieved to hear the end of the moaning. "Enough. You were under the Imperious Curse, which I can only guess somehow ended when Malfoy nearly drowned. I brought you here to America at his insistence, but if you prove a nuisance you will be disposed of. Do you understand?"

She nodded, staring past him. Snape turned to see the gaunt figure of Draco Malfoy silhouetted in the doorway. The boy eyed Rosmerta carefully, as though weighing the chances of whether he could once again bend her to his will. He was caught off guard when she suddenly lunged toward him and flung her turquoise shoe at his face, catching him across the cheek.

"I've thrown you out of my pub before, Malfoy," she shouted, her face animated with rage. "You'll never utter an Unspeakable Curse again." Raising one hand, she revealed a dangerous looking shard of glass taken from the littered floor of the cabin.

"_Expelliarmus_," came a soft voice from behind them. The glass leapt from her hand and went clattering over the side of the porch beyond. Breathing heavily, Rosmerta backed away from Draco. Snape handed the young man a length of frayed rope that had been coiled in the corner. The other end of it was attached to a rusted, broken anchor that was lying on the floor.

"Tie her."

Rosmerta was still as Draco tied her hands firmly behind her back, but she was not silent. "So you chose exile instead of servitude, Draco? Haven't you pleased your master? Your father? Your mother?"

She flinched as Draco made to slap her across the face, but Snape prevented him.

"A Malfoy is always a gentleman, Draco—under most circumstances, at any rate. And remember, it was your choice to bring her."

Murmuring a spell, Snape dried their clothes before sitting in the doorway to watch the rain. Draco collapsed on the wooden floor beside his professor, his outburst of anger subdued. Rosmerta sat quietly, her face turned away from them.

Snape watched as a snowy egret launched itself gracefully from the edge of the marsh through the curtain of rain and mist. He had not chosen exile. He would return to finish what he had started at Hogwarts as soon as his final mission for Albus Dumbledore was complete.

It had been tempting to leave Draco Malfoy to his fate in Britain, either at the hands of the Order or at the feet of Voldemort himself. But Dumbledore's commands were not to be defied, even after his death. Snape felt a mingling of pity and disgust when he looked at the boy; a young fool who had tried the quickest path to glory. Draco did not understand that glory was usually hard-won, that it often took years of patience and a stroke of luck.

As if reading his mind, Rosmerta spoke in a gravelly voice from her corner. She sounded as though she had been crying. "Why did you do it, Severus? Albus trusted you."

He did not turn to look at her. At his side, Draco had fallen into a death-like slumber. Snape considered the boy's face before answering; Draco looked years younger when he was sleeping, but the still-fresh scar of the Dark Mark on his arm belied his innocence. He will never enjoy peaceful rest again, Snape thought darkly. As if on cue, Draco moaned and his mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.

"One more question, and I will throw that anchor into the water. Is that clear?" he asked, indicating the heavy, barnacle-encrusted object attached to her hands. "Let the boy rest."

"The 'boy' is an avowed Death Eater who cursed me!" she sputtered angrily. "And you—you are a Judas, worse than a blood traitor!"

A distant rumble of thunder announced the passing of the great storm. Outside the shack, it was difficult to distinguish the black water from the shadowy marsh, although overhead a few stars were struggling through the ragged wisps of cloud. The air had grown cool and damp. Snape could hear water swirling around the pilings supporting the shack as the tide rose. There was no moon.

Rising to his feet, he lifted Draco and carried the shivering boy back into the dark interior, laying him down on a stray lump of canvas with uncharacteristic gentleness. Draco murmured and rolled onto his side, but did not awaken. Turning, Snape approached Rosmerta.

"What are you doing?" she asked nervously.

Without speaking, he hauled her to her feet and began dragging her toward the door.

"What?" she began, but he wrapped a hand over her mouth. She kicked at him, finally realizing what he was about to do.

The splash was loud; Snape was glad to see that Draco remained asleep.

"Mmmph!" Rosmerta choked, inhaling a mouthful of water. The anchor was small, but it was heavy. By straining her neck backwards, she was just able to keep her nose out of the water, but the tide was rising fast. Desperate, she tried to slide the ropes from her wrists by rubbing them against the side of the stone piling. A small wave slapped her in the face, and she choked again.

"What did I say about being a nuisance?" Snape asked pleasantly.

"I won't—I'll stop," she gasped, wrenching her neck back and kicking hard against the bottom as another wave came. The wet rope cut into her wrists.

"I don't believe you."

"I prom—," she began, when another wave caught her across the mouth. She went under.

Swiftly, Snape lowered himself into the water. He caught Rosmerta by the arm, but she frantically grabbed him around the neck, pulling him under with her. Extricating himself, he cursed and moved behind her, lifting her chin above the waves as he pulled the rope from her hands.

She sat on the porch, drenched and shaking, as he carefully dried his own clothing with his wand.

"You see that I am serious about your behavior," he said calmly.

"Torturer," she spat, rubbing her wrists. They had turned an angry red.

He shrugged. "I have played the part. I was against you coming with us from the beginning. Draco wanted you, though—wanted to dispose of the 'evidence' against him. He could never kill you, of course, just as he couldn't kill Dumbledore when he had the chance. Draco may be a Death Eater now, but he's just as much a scared child who has gotten into matters that are too big for him."

"So you're going to kill me, then? Do you always do his killing for him when he loses his nerve? I thought the Death Eaters were tougher than that."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "I have no intention of killing you, Rosmerta. How many years have we known each other?"

She looked at him warily and drew a sopping sleeve across her cheek, which was streaked white with dried salt. "Many years."

Snape glided back to the door and watched as several new stars glimmered through the clouds. He focused on the dark water before him. The next question he asked surprised him, although he spoke it calmly, naturally. "Have you ever trusted me?"

"When I was young and foolish, yes. I listened to Dumbledore, and why shouldn't I? He was worth more than all of us put together. There was talk about you in the pub for many a year," she grumbled. "When I mentioned it to Dumbledore, he only smiled. He always had faith in you, and see where it got him."

"I'm not going to kill you," he repeated softly. She did not answer him.

Snape did not seem to notice. He stared across the water at a glimmer of yellow lantern light that was moving toward them. The night had become calm, and soon he could hear the squeak of oarlocks as the light drew closer. Lionel Skerritt, the valet of Charles Applethorn, had arranged to bring them safely to Salem—to Draco's refuge. The Applethorns were one of the oldest American wizarding families; their blood was as pure as it was blue. Snape hoped that their manservant would be discreet.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, and the glow from his wand illuminated a small grey dory that was approaching the shack. A hooded figure sat huddled at the oars.

"Skerritt?"

The figure nodded; tossing a rope to Snape, he pulled himself up on the porch. Lionel Skerritt was tall, with craggy features and a bristly mustache. Thick blond hair spilled from beneath the dark knit cap that was pulled tightly over his head. He nodded at Snape, who inclined his head stiffly in return.

"Who is that?" Skerritt gestured toward Rosmerta.

"A minor liability, which I have under control. Don't worry about her now. The boy is sleeping."

Skerritt nodded, and went on in his clipped voice. "I got your message: arriving on the _Pursuit_. How was the journey?"

Snape's thin lips twisted into a thin smile as Rosmerta pulled her still-soaking robes more tightly around her shivering body. "We survived."

Skerritt grunted and looked as though he was not terribly impressed with their survival. "Ghost ships aren't the best transports, but they're secret and safe, usually. You have to watch out for smugglers and other dangerous or crazy types on board." He gave Snape a sideward glance before carefully reciting his mission. "I'm here to take the boy to a place where he'll be sheltered, and no one will ask any questions."

He peered at Draco, who was lying with his face turned toward the wall. "I've heard he killed Albus Dumbledore. The word is beginning to spread through the city. A lot of folks don't like it."

"But no questions will be asked," Snape replied smoothly. His hand tightened around his wand.

If Skerritt noticed Snape's warning, he did not mark it. Striking a match against the side of the cabin, he cupped it close to his face and lit a pungent cigarette. "What about the woman?"

Rosmerta opened her mouth, but Snape closed a hand tightly around her wrist. "She'll stay with me." He gave her a look that made her close her mouth and stare at the floor, and then went to Draco's side. Kneeling, he gently touched the boy's shoulder.

Draco sat bolt upright and skidded backward across the floor. His pale chest rose and fell violently. "I saw him! I saw Voldemort!"

"No, Draco. You've been asleep. You haven't seen anyone."

Draco rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. "It can't be…I saw him. He was here, right in front of me. He…he was angry."

"You made your decision, Draco. He thinks you are dead; you are no longer in his mind."

Draco scrambled to his feet. "You promised me he would never know I was here. You said I'd be safe. You said he'd be satisfied with Dumbledore's death."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "The night you received the Mark on your arm you gave up safety. As one who has fled from the Dark Lord, you can no longer expect it, though you might search for it for the rest of your life. The protection you find here will last only until your cover is broken. The pain you will feel each time you refuse to answer his call will be excruciating."

Draco blanched. His hand spasmodically grasped at the raw scar on his left arm. The fear in his eyes turned to anger when he saw that Lionel Skerritt was looking at him rather disapprovingly. "What are you staring at? Do you know who I am? I'm a Malfoy. You are no better than one of my servants."

Skerritt grunted, but made no sign that Draco's words bothered him. "That's true, my boy; and I've been a servant of the Applethorn family for most of my years. They came over on the Mayflower, you know. But there ain't no Dark Lord searching for me. So you'd best quiet down and accept my master's offer of shelter for as long as it lasts. And remember he's risking his neck to protect you; you're the largest liability as far as I'm concerned." The last part of his speech was mumbled under his breath, with a sharp glance at Rosmerta.

As if aware that he had held forth for an uncharacteristically long time, Skerritt made a move toward the dory, unwrapping the rope from the railing and coiling it in one hand. Draco climbed rather unsteadily into the boat.

Rosmerta ignored Skerritt's outstretched hand and clambered down, trying to sit as far from Draco as she possibly could. Snape settled beside her, and she turned away shivering to stare into the dark, grassy expanse that stretched off into the distance. Without a sound, the small boat moved off, a phosphorescent sheen trailing in its wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy was confused as he stared up at the ceiling. A faded, cracked Apollo floated directly over his head, flanked by small winged babies, centaurs, and other beings that Draco didn't recognize. It took him a few moments to realize that he was far from home. He sat up immediately, ripping the sheet away from his bare torso.

Stumbling to the adjoining bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and neck. To his relief, the image that was reflected in the baroque mirror did not betray what he was feeling inside. At least the nightmares had not returned, only strange and half-remembered visions. Perhaps it was a good sign. Maybe he was getting better at being a Death Eater—if he could only control his fears, his feelings, in the future.

Leaning closer to the glass, Draco examined himself critically. Impatiently he scratched his lean, angular jaw, which was covered with light stubble, and rubbed eyes that were still heavy with sleep. There was nothing overtly tough or intimidating about his face—nothing that would set him apart as a Death Eater. Nothing like Dolohov's viciously scarred cheek or Bellatrix's mask of pain and glory from her imprisonment. He was nothing, compared to them. The self-mocking mouth before him revealed enough: cowards couldn't boast of battle scars.

Holding his left arm up to the mirror, Draco examined the still-raw Dark Mark that glared menacingly back at him. Directly after receiving the Mark, his arm had felt numb and dead, but his heart had been filled with a new knowledge of his potential, and a new fear: fear of the Dark Lord. Now the sight of it filled him with a sense of dread. Yes, there was terror of Lord Voldemort, but also something worse: the fear that he had forever dishonored the Malfoy family through his cowardice.

At first, the symbol seared into his arm had been a mark of bravery, of distinction. He remembered showing the Mark to his friends for the first time. By the end of their fifth year at Hogwarts, they had become much harder to control. It had been so satisfying to see how their respect for him deepened. Crabbe had been afraid, at first; he had seen it in the boy's face quite clearly. Goyle had merely grunted in approval, while Pansy's eyes had been even more worshipful than usual.

It had surprised Draco that the Dark Mark had improved his opportunities with girls. Pansy had always been attracted to him for his money, but it had been gratifying to know that she wanted him because of his power, too. He hoped that word wouldn't spread among his friends of his great failure on the Astronomy Tower. Surely Voldemort would discover that it had been Snape who had killed Dumbledore, who had completed the task awarded to him. The task that was supposed to prove his worthiness.

Draco felt the tears coming again. It made him angry. He hadn't cried since he was a very little boy, when his father's punishments used to terrify him nearly to death. As an older child, he learned that crying merely made his father treat him with cold indifference, and so had forced himself to suppress his feelings. But over the past year at school, the tears had seemed to come so easily, so often. Dodging into the boys' lavatory, where he could lock the door and cry in privacy, had become almost a regular event toward the end. He had felt so isolated, and so sorry for himself. But above all he felt great fear and pain at the thought of killing Dumbledore. Part of him wanted the old man's approval and love, but he knew that he would get none of it. It had all been given to Potter years before.

Well, Draco had found his own approval and love: the Dark Lord had taken him in, had made a place for him among the Death Eaters. At first he had refused to let himself admit that Voldemort had given him the task to get at his father, locked away in Azkaban. He wouldn't let himself believe that Voldemort cared very little whether he lived or died. But now he knew that his life was worth very little, even in far-away Salem. The idea that the Dark Lord might take his life for failing to complete his task made the tears fall fast and hot. Filled with shame, Draco buried his face in his hands and wept.

Suddenly, a thin blade of morning sunlight streaked through a crack in the heavy brocade window curtains, casting a halo of light around his fair head. He looked up and gaped as he saw his silvery hair and tearstained face illuminated, and found himself grinning broadly in response. For the first time in his life, he didn't care that he looked foolish. The light was a reminder. He was powerful. In spite of everything, he was powerful. The feeling reminded him of how he had felt after performing the Imperius Curse, of having complete control over another soul. Someday, if he could only free his father, the Dark Lord would taste his power. Then he would be sorry. They would all be sorry.

Draco's beatific moment was interrupted by a short, ugly maid who knocked at the door and almost immediately entered his suite. She was bearing a tray of what looked like breakfast.

"How dare you enter without my permission?" Draco demanded, drawing himself up to full height. He hurriedly pulled a rich purple dressing gown around his pale shoulders and continued to stare at her imperiously. Draco was tall for his age, and had inherited his stature from his father. He didn't fully realize the effect he created: it was rare that the poor woman met notorious, good-looking young wizards from abroad.

Overcome, the maid squeaked in response, nearly dropping her tray. She hurriedly backed out of the room, in the process colliding with Severus Snape, who rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Look where you're going, woman!"

The terrified maid, who looked as though she was about to burst into tears, mumbled a "Very sorry, Mister Snape," and fled. Ignoring her, Snape entered and cast himself down into one of the richly embroidered chairs in the sitting area.

"Draco, I have something I wish to discuss with you."

Feigning disinterest, Draco lifted the cover from the discarded breakfast tray and grabbed several pieces of toast. "What is there to talk about? You prevented me from doing what I needed to do, so now I have to hide here. Now I'm living like a prisoner. Ironic, isn't it? My life is forfeit, while you're His favorite."

"You were unable to carry out the task. It had to be done."

Draco whirled toward his professor. "It had to be done—by _me_. You've ruined everything."

"Draco, you're behaving like a child. It is quite unbecoming."

Draco pulled out the wand that Charles Applethorn had lent him. Before he could cast the first hex, he found himself flat on his back, the wand embedded deep in the wall behind him. Breathing hard, he hauled himself to his feet.

"I hate you."

Snape seemed to take this remark in a stride. He resumed his seat on the over-adorned chair. "I told you, you are relatively safe here. You are no longer on the Dark Lord's mind—for the moment."

"You told me he believes that I'm dead."

Snape shrugged. "It amounts to the same thing. He is occupied with larger matters right now. When he does begin to think about you again, you are assured of nothing."

"Then what do you want to talk about?" Draco asked, his voice flat and dead. The moment in the sunlight had vanished from his mind.

"He is going to summon His Death Eaters soon. I know that He is preparing His next move, and that He wishes to gather His strength." Snape rose and began pacing before the fireplace in the sitting area.

"What's that got to do with me? I don't want to serve Him anymore."

Snape was at Draco's side then, his long fingers curling around the boy's rather fragile-looking wrist. The older wizard roughly pushed back the purple cloth to reveal Draco's Mark.

"You bear His Mark. When He calls, you will feel pain in your arm that will be nearly unbearable. The longer you resist the call, the worse the pain will feel, until you wish for death. Then you beg for death, but it won't come. Finally, the agony will subside a little, but a worse feeling will fill your heart when you think of the punishment He has in store for those who ignore His summons," he hissed.

Draco pulled away and covered his arm again. Something about his once-favorite professor had changed. He had always admired Snape's ruthlessness and skill, and had been instantly won over as a young student when the Potions Master had exposed Harry Potter for the attention-seeking fraud that he was. At moments, he had even loved the man, who had supported him when no one else did. But now he sensed an urgency in Snape's manner that was more frightening than the man's horrifying words. He felt fear rise in his throat as the jet black eyes of his professor caught and held his own.

"What shall I do, then?" he asked, trying to steady his voice, which threatened to betray him with a preadolescent squeak.

"Remain here. There is nothing else you can do, until He is at leisure to send others to get you—or decides to come himself. The Dark Lord does not allow apostates to survive."

"You survived," Draco heard himself saying.

Snape was silent for a few moments, his face an unreadable mask. All sense of power abandoned, Draco wondered whether he would be punished for his forwardness; however, Snape merely walked toward the door with slow, measured steps.

"He acknowledges me as one of His most loyal servants, now. You will need help during the summons—help resisting His call, and help managing the pain. I will not be able to aid you, as I must heed Him."

Draco nodded; there didn't seem to be much to say.

"Since Applethorn is a complete imbecile and no one else here can be entirely trusted, I have decided that Madam Rosmerta will fulfill the role."

At the mention of Rosmerta, Draco felt the blood begin to rush more quickly through his veins. It was as though Snape had mentioned an old lover. He could not explain his need for her, or for power over her. He had controlled her for months, and each day that passed had made him feel stronger, almost invincible. He knew what it meant to preside over someone else's fate. He longed for that feeling again, more than for any drug or comfort that could be found in Knockturn Alley or throughout the wizarding world.

Draco could feel Snape's eyes on him, measuring him, gauging the effect of the woman's name on him. He could feel his cheeks coloring slightly, and hid his trembling hands behind his back.

"Why would she want to help me, sir? She hates me."

Snape's lips twisted into a smile. "Everyone has his…or her…price, Draco. Have you learned nothing in Slytherin for the past six years?"

After his professor had left, Draco dropped his head into his hands in exhaustion. Within the space of an hour, he had grasped the possibility of power, had lost it, and then had it restored again. The only thing he was sure of was that he was on his own. Not even Snape could protect him. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made the right decision.

Would it be easier to repent, return to Voldemort, and make amends? To accept punishment for failing to kill Dumbledore and for running away? Fear and shame had driven him to desert the Death Eaters; would they be the motivation for his return as well? For now, he knew there was nothing he could do. He would have to trust in his professor; his trust in himself had long since run dry.


	3. Chapter 3

Rosmerta paced fretfully around the large bedroom. It was located on the third floor of the Applethorn mansion, and had apparently not been used for many years. From what she had glimpsed of the rest of the house, the Applethorn estate was large and vastly wealthy. Gleaming mahogany woodwork, teak furniture, rich oil paintings, and fine cloth decorated the lower floors.

She had no doubt that Draco Malfoy had been shown to an elegant bedroom where servants would wait upon him hand and foot. She was sure that he would while away the hours of his exile pursuing the pleasures of aristocratic boredom. The idea made her want to grind her teeth.

Snape had vaguely introduced Rosmerta to Charles Applethorn as a servant. Applethorn was different than she had imagined him. Young and tanned, with stylish Muggle clothing, he had slyly offered her more comfortable quarters, but Snape had insisted on her being removed from the rest of the household. That had been irritating enough, but now they were making her wait in a hot and stuffy attic room. She had become even more infuriated upon realizing that Snape had locked her in.

Rosmerta initially passed the hours by trying to date the objects in the room according to the thickness of the dust layers coating them. Two threadbare chairs and an old Victorian-looking ottoman had been placed in the center of the room; Rosmerta speculated that nearly fifty years of dust covered them.

Several broken tables lurked in the far corner, where a large framed canvas stood half-covered by an old blanket. The grime layered over these indicated that they had been discarded more recently. Beside them there was a dressmaker's dummy, which was draped in red, rich-looking cloth. It was the only object in the room that was clean.

The carpet on the floor was filled with holes, although it looked as though it had been beautiful at one time. The windows were bare. A film of filth covering the panes made the world outside look rusty and depressing. Rosmerta had quickly lifted the window sashes as high as they would go, which improved the air in the room as well as the view of the outside world.

There was a bed in one corner, with faded blue velvet hangings. The ornate bedstead was layered with at least one hundred years' worth of dust and was chipped in places. She had tested the mattress and found it comfortable enough, so she allowed herself to sleep. The sea journey had been difficult and exhausting, although, try as she might, all she could really recall of it were distant impressions of waves and sky.

The interruption of memory troubled her the most. The weeks she had spent under the Imperius curse were like a vague dream. At times she could remember certain details, but for the most part it felt like an extended hiatus between mind and body. The most vivid detail she could recall was coming to in the cold waters near the marsh and hearing the dead men singing. The strange music had chilled her bones, but it had helped her regain enough presence of mind to start swimming for shore.

She could not guess at the exact moment when the evil connection between herself and Draco Malfoy had been severed, but she imagined it was the moment the boy had nearly drowned. And he should have been left to die, she thought bitterly. He should have drowned like the little rat he was. But Severus Snape had taken care of that.

When she had awakened earlier that day, the light streaming in the dormer window told her it was past noon. Her skin itched with the dust. She tried the door once again, but it was just as locked as before. Rosmerta could not honestly say what she would do if she escaped, anyway. Dumbledore was dead. From what Snape had intimated to her, half of the British wizarding world believed she had gone bad.

Rosmerta had been friendly with Cornelius Fudge after a fashion, but she didn't fancy a Ministry hearing under Rufus Scrimgeour to prove her innocence. Scrimgeour had brought her in on charges of abetting a Dark smuggling ring at her pub, the Three Broomsticks, during his stint as Head Auror. Rosmerta had ducked the accusations with alacrity, and had covered up for Aberforth Dumbledore's rather dodgy back-room operation in the process.

She doubted that Scrimgeour would let her off again; she guessed he wouldn't hesitate to lock her up on principle, as he had done with poor Stan Shunpike. As far as she knew, the only two people in the world who knew that the Imperius Curse had been placed on her were Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape—a young Death Eater and a very public murderer.

These thoughts and others like them swirled through her tired brain as she methodically paced the floor of the bedroom. She was acutely aware of the fact that she had lost her wand, and had no weapons or money. She had no friends in Salem. She had no idea what evils were coming to pass at home.

Occasionally she would sit in one of the threadbare chairs and cry softly, thinking of Dumbledore and what the future might hold. A few times she attempted to find some way out of the room, unable to stand the loneliness anymore. There was one door in the corner that she tried without success. She guessed that it led up to the widow's walk at the top of the house. The windows offered no escape; the eastern dormer looked out over the rooftops of Salem toward the harbor. The far window offered a view of the Applethorns' slightly overgrown but aggressively elegant courtyard garden, which led her eye back into the depths of the estate and out across the water.

She soon grew tired of these views, but restively returned to them as the sun tracked its way over to the western windows. There the unobstructed light flooded the room with a warm red glow. Rosmerta dreaded the coming evening; there was no magical light in the room—no lamps or candles, either. She did not relish the idea of another dark night spent alone in this place. From the half-covered canvas in the corner she could hear an occasional low giggling noise. It did not help her to rest her mind.

As the last of the sun's rays stole across the floor, she heard the door creak open. Snape entered. There was no sign of Draco.

"I hope you've been more clever about hiding Draco than you've been about hiding me."

Snape assessed her coldly. "His fate is not your concern, although I have come to discuss a few matters relating to my mission with you."

He looked a bit better than he had when they arrived at the mansion the night before. Then his clothes had been ragged and torn, his cloak missing, and his black hair straggling down the sides of his narrow face. This evening he was wearing clean black robes and a hooded cloak that swept the floor. Rosmerta was suddenly conscious of her tattered blue rags and grimy skin.

"I don't recall your 'mission' being any of my concern. You've murdered Albus Dumbledore. That means we're not on the same side, Severus." She tried to keep her voice cold and passionless.

"It isn't your concern that I want. It is your silence."

She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, remembering the anchor and the cold, dark water. "My silence?"

"You know too much, Madam Rosmerta. You know I have been helping Draco, and I cannot allow word of young Malfoy's whereabouts to get back to…certain parties."

"You mean your master, the Dark Lord?" she spat. "What does he know of all this, anyway? How much is my silence really worth to you?"

Snape pointed his wand at one of the chairs, clearing it of dust. Seating himself, he gestured to Rosmerta to join him, but she remained standing near the window.

"Come here."

"I've been ordered around enough lately," she returned.

"You dare disobey me? After all I have done, and with all I could do to you now?" In spite of his questions, Snape's voice sounded flat and unsurprised.

Rosmerta tried not to think of what he could do to her as she swiftly moved to the far side of the attic.

"I am losing patience, Rosmerta."

"You will have my silence," she said finally, "but I need a guarantee from you as well."

"You are in no position to ask anything of me."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. It opened slightly, and Lionel Skerritt poked his head in. "Master Applethorn would like to see you, Mr. Snape." He glanced curiously at Rosmerta, who stared back defiantly.

"Thank you, Skerritt. I will be down directly." Snape gazed thoughtfully at the floor for a few seconds after the valet retreated. Then, as if reaching a decision, he stalked toward the door, turning to address Rosmerta before leaving.

"We will dine together tonight. You will have a chance to convince me of your 'needs,' but I guarantee nothing. Be ready by eight." With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

Rosmerta flew at the door, but he had locked it again. If she only had her wand… "Blast!" she screamed, slamming her fists against the wood.

"There's no need for that language, Madam!"

Rosmerta whirled, but no one else was in the room. "Who is it?" she called. Her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. Then she remembered seeing the gilt-framed edge of a painting in the corner. Running to it, she yanked off the dusty old blanket. Staring back at her from the canvas was a beautiful teenaged girl with waist-length blond hair.

"He's not much to look at, is he?" the young woman asked. She sounded amused.

"He's completely _evil_!" Rosmerta blurted out. It felt good to shout that at someone else, even if it was just a portrait.

The girl flashed a sultry smile. "We're all a little bit evil. At least he's always right where I want him." She looked vaguely familiar, but Rosmerta could not remember how she knew the girl.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The girl arched an elegant eyebrow, speaking in the long-suffering manner of the rich and cultured. "Narcissa Black, of course. Can you believe they've stuck me in this dusty place? I should be hanging in the grand ballroom."

Her voice had an arrogant and aristocratic tone, and Rosmerta wondered why she hadn't immediately recognized Draco Malfoy's mother. The girl seemed so different from the woman she would one day become. Lucius Malfoy's wife had a reputation for being quiet and aloof; this Narcissa was vivacious, spirited, and outspoken. Rosmerta guessed that she was addressing the portrait of Narcissa Malfoy's American debut, and wondered why it had been abandoned in the Applethorns' attic.

"Oh, yes—you should be right in the entrance hall so everyone can see you," she hedged.

Narcissa's face lit up. She had clearly been lonely. "I'm glad you see things my way. Let's chat awhile, unless you're still intent on pacing and kicking up great clouds of dust all over the place."

Rosmerta awkwardly lifted the large painting and placed it gently in one of the old chairs, seating herself in the other. "What did you mean when you said that Snape is always right where you want him?"

Narcissa laughed. "Oh, Severus has been wild for me ever since First Year at Hogwarts. A useful boy in many respects—he spent a great deal of time helping me with my Potions homework. So easy to manage him, if you know how to do it. Hideous to look at, of course, but sometimes brains matter more than appearance, you know."

Narcissa's voice had taken on a nasty, gossipy quality that Rosmerta had grown used to among some of the clientele at the Three Broomsticks. She held her head at a haughty angle, as though daring the other woman to disagree with her.

"Oh, I know!" Rosmerta replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She had quickly decided that any information was good information, and was determined to get as much of it as she could. "He's simply horrible. But how on earth could anyone control such a man? He's cold as ice." She shook her head in a scatterbrained manner, hoping that Narcissa's natural sense of superiority would lead her to reveal something important about Snape: something she could use against him. She was tired of being powerless.

The girl appraised Rosmerta for a few seconds. "Well, I daresay the first thing you need to do is clean yourself up." She laughed with a sound like the tinkling of bells. Rosmerta rubbed ruefully at her face and found a dark streak of grime on her hands.

"Then, of course, you could try that," Narcissa purred, inclining her head toward the nearby dressmaker's dummy. The red cloth draped around it shimmered faintly in the fading light. Rosmerta moved toward it as though noticing it for the first time. She tentatively reached out to touch the fabric. It seemed to throb softly under her touch, and smelled faintly of roses.

At that moment she knew that, more than anything else in the world, she wanted to wrap the material around her body and breathe that scent forever. She wondered why she hadn't spent her time in the attic sliding her hands through the cloth; that would have been more productive than pacing and looking out windows.

Suddenly, the room seemed to tilt, and Rosmerta grabbed the edge of one of the chairs to keep from falling to the ground. "What is happening to me?" she mumbled. Her tongue felt thick and heavy.

"You want to wear it, don't you?" came the sultry voice of Narcissa Black.

"More than anything," Rosmerta murmured. She twined a dirty hand through the silken fabric and brought it close to her cheek.

"Now, now, that won't do! You'll soil it!" Narcissa scolded. The sharpness of her voice brought Rosmerta back from the hazy edge of unconsciousness. She dropped the cloth and moved away, but did not take her eyes off it.

"I must…get clean."

"That's right," soothed Narcissa. "I'll send for Skerritt; he'll bring you soap and warm water. Don't move from that spot until I return." She walked out of her frame.

It seemed that she was only gone a few seconds when the door creaked open and the blond valet appeared, bearing a steaming ewer, a towel, a basin, and a cake of soap. He left them just inside the door and retreated in silence.

"Now, have a good wash and then you can put it on."

Without taking her eyes from the red fabric, Rosmerta obediently stripped off her blue rags and washed with the clear, warm water. The soap smelled wonderful, and the towels were soft. Must be nice to be wealthy, she thought distantly.

She stared at the red dress as she dried herself; she hadn't remembered it to be a dress before, just a length of fabric. But now it had become the most beautiful gown she had ever seen: sleeveless and simply designed, with a dramatically low-cut back.

"Made just for you," whispered Narcissa.

"For me," Rosmerta repeated. She slipped the gown over her head; it fell to the floor, caressing her hips and clinging to her skin. Her body tingled pleasantly wherever the fabric brushed against her.

"He'll do whatever you say," came the giggling voice from the portrait.

"Mmmm," Rosmerta mumbled. The room had grown completely dark, except for a faint glow and sheen that seemed to be coming from the gown. "Wish I had a light," she said plaintively, but Narcissa merely laughed again. Rosmerta thought about how pleasant the young woman's voice had become.

"It's nicer in the dark, my dear. I wore that gown to my debut here in Salem; it is an old tradition for the Black women when we come of age, to make our Grand Tour of the world. Oh, how I made Nat Applethorn desire me! He died that night, you know. Hanged himself from the old oak at the back of the garden, beyond the terrace. You can see the ocean from there, and the lights from the boats in the harbor. These wealthy Americans think they know how to entertain, but they know nothing about throwing a proper feast. I was the grandest guest that night, you can be sure! Poor Nat," she said, grinning.

"Poor Nat," Rosmerta nodded. Narcissa's words seemed to be tumbling out of her mouth without much order; it was hard to keep them straight. As Narcissa prattled on, Rosmerta suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired and dizzy. Falling to her knees, she swayed slightly on the bare wooden floor. It looked so comfortable to her that she lay down, drawing one arm behind her to pillow her head.

"You'll have him when he comes," Narcissa reassured her. Her voice made Rosmerta feel as though she had all the answers; a sensation of wellbeing flooded her body and mind like a pint of honeyed mead.

"I'll have him," she repeated as the room faded to darkness around her.


	4. Chapter 4

Steamed clams, fresh boiled lobster, and a rich chowder stood on the sideboard in the informal dining room of Applethorn mansion. The food was nothing Severus Snape would ordinarily eat. The scent of warm bread was tempting, but he knew that the rest of the rich food would play havoc with his digestion.

He watched a silent and rather heavyset maid set the table for two. A couple of harried-looking house elves scurried in to help as she laid the second-best silver plate on the table according to a science that Snape remembered from his childhood. Both settings included some strange-looking tools that he could not put a name to, apparently made for extracting the meat from a variety of shelled sea creatures. They reminded him of instruments of torture.

Charles Applethorn poked his head in the door. "You're certain you do not want to dine with us in the blue room, Severus? I've invited such amusing people, and they're all dying to meet the man who…well, who has become so infamous! And it's so dreary in this old place. But of course, you British seem to like that sort of thing." His hearty tones subsided as he added confidentially, "If you don't mind, I'd love to take that little servant of yours out for a stroll by the water one of these nights. You'll have to fetch her down for me." He finished by winking in a most appalling way.

Snape decided at that moment that he didn't care at all for Charles Applethorn. The previous night he had been indifferent about the master of the mansion, although he had felt a twinge of gratefulness at the man's offer of shelter for Draco. He only had a passing acquaintance with Applethorn, who had been a correspondent and business associate of Lucius Malfoy since the first war.

Charles knew of Albus Dumbledore's reputation, and of his death, of course; such news traveled like lightening in the wizarding world. But since Albus Dumbledore had never given him investment advice, or sold him a polo pony, or taken a ride on his yacht, he was as indifferent to the killing as he was to the appointment of Rufus Scrimgeour to the post of Minister of Magic. Applethorn's supreme self-satisfaction, coupled with his well-bred sense of blood loyalty, made him the best solution that time could afford.

In spite of the logic behind his choice, Snape could not help but find Applethorn dangerously irritating as he leaned against the doorway with a studied grace and a complacent grin. The man had obviously never wanted for anything. His crisp Muggle shirt was finely creased, with the collar standing up rakishly yet artfully around his neck. His wand was stuck in the back pocket of his designer jeans; it was crafted from what looked like fine teakwood. Snape wondered whether he ever used it, or whether it was as ornamental as the rest of him.

"Madam Rosmerta is a simple woman, Charles. She would hardly be satisfying company for the likes of you." Snape found it difficult to keep from gritting his teeth as the man's face split into a grin of cocky self-assurance.

"It's not the conversation I'm interested in, old boy," he laughed. "Perhaps Lucius never told you I have a way with the fairer sex. Stay here long enough, and I'll teach you a thing or two about women."

"And your wife?" Snape asked in a cold voice, picturing the distant, harried-looking witch he had met in passing the night before.

"Drunk. She'll never notice." He left the room with a wink and a whistle, pinching the bottom of the slab-faced maid as she arrived with candles for the table.

The maid looked for a moment as though every spell in Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed was passing through her mind at once, with each one found wanting. Snape felt a grudging stab of pity for her, but it was quickly overcome by his own brand of indifference. He had enough problems without interfering in the romantic entanglements of the Applethorn household.

The foremost of his troubles was Rosmerta. He had been taken off guard by her demand for a guarantee, but he had no intention of granting her anything. Snape had humored Draco by allowing the woman to accompany them, although he had been slightly concerned by the boy's pathological need for power over her. Perhaps it was a side effect of the Imperius curse on one too young to properly control it.

But now he needed Rosmerta, too, and for more than her silence. He hoped she was not immune to his brand of persuasion, so different from Applethorn's; yet he knew that she would most likely refuse to cooperate with him.

He approached her room, but hesitated before entering; from the crack beneath the door there was a strange red glow. Frowning, he drew his wand from his sleeve and slowly turned the key in the lock. The room appeared dark and empty at first.

"Madam Rosmerta?"

"I'm here."

"_Lumos_," he breathed, and the light revealed Rosmerta seated in the center of the room, her back turned toward him. "You recall that we are to dine together tonight?"

"What about Draco Malfoy?"

"He is safe—for now. Come, I need to discuss something with you."

"And I with you, Severus."

Snape frowned; there was something in her voice that he didn't like, although he couldn't quite place what it was.

"Let us go, then."

She rose and moved into the full circle of light cast by his wand. He stepped back inadvertently; her old blue robes were gone, in their place a simple red gown. He couldn't help but stare for several moments, and then grew angry with himself for gawking like a First Year student.

"Did he give you that dress?" Surprised at his own question, Snape found it difficult to keep a shade of bitterness out of his voice.

"Who?"

"Applethorn."

"No, I found it here. I haven't spoken to Charles since last night, when he so kindly offered me my own room downstairs. Thanks to you, I've been stuck in this dirty attic for ages."

"A night and a day, Rosmerta," Snape said dryly. "I can arrange for you to be here for quite a bit longer than that, I assure you."

"What is it that you love so much about thinly veiled threats, Severus?" she mocked, pushing her index finger against his thin chest.

Snape gasped suddenly as he felt his heart convulse. For a moment, he thought he was going to black out. The sensation was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating; it took him several moments to recover. When his pulse began to return to normal he considered the woman before him more carefully. Rosmerta was not herself. She looked beautiful, certainly, but it was not like him to find such things distracting. There was no sign that she was under the Imperius Curse. Still, he could sense strong magic coming from her.

Snape experimentally extended his arm toward Rosmerta, and she laughed as she took it. He had half-expected another strong shock when she touched him, but this time he only felt his blood quicken slightly.

"Ah, only a true gentleman would offer his arm."

Snape only scowled at her in answer. His look was met with a sweet mocking smile that would have ordinarily infuriated him; however, her silence was a relief. His head was still not in order after the shock she had given him. He was greatly troubled by the effect Rosmerta was having on him. When she had touched him, it felt like falling off a broom, tumbling head over heels, but never hitting the ground. Dizzying.

The feeling redoubled when Snape seated her at the table. As he offered Rosmerta a chair, she smiled at him and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. At her touch his head swam once again and he needed to steady himself against the back of her seat. Looking down, he found himself staring at the smooth, lightly freckled skin of her neck and shoulders. A stray lock of gold hair curled down across her neck; he had to fight the urge to draw his fingers through it. A faint, delicious sent of roses met his nostrils. What was happening to him?

"Aren't you going to join me?" Rosmerta asked sweetly. Snape cursed silently as he noticed his hands were shaking.

At that moment, the granite-faced maid entered, and he was momentarily brought back to himself. He quickly moved away from Rosmerta, noticing as he did so that the maid was staring at the woman fearfully. Snape wondered what had disturbed the servant so. Before he could find out, the maid had served their food and fled the room. Rosmerta daintily took a bite of soup. She seemed not to care about the other woman's strange behavior. Snape left his meal untouched.

"What are your demands?" he asked, trying not to look directly into the grey eyes across the table. It seemed easier to breathe when he wasn't looking at them, and better to get straight to the point. He needed to regain control.

"Only three things, Severus: that you give me back my wand, that you get me passage back to Hogsmeade, and that you vouch for my innocence in the matter of Albus Dumbledore's betrayal and death."

"You talk like a solicitor, not a barmaid."

"Scrimgeour will lock me up if I appear out of nowhere after being seen over half of Hogsmeade with murdering Death Eaters. I can't let that happen."

"I don't have your wand. And I can't let you go home just yet," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt the strange dizziness again, and a sudden overpowering urge to give Rosmerta his own wand and let her Apparate wherever she wished. But no—he couldn't do that. Reaching for his wine glass, he fumbled it and splashed some of the liquid onto the white tablecloth.

"Clumsy!" Rosmerta laughed again. Beneath the clear laughter there was a harsh quality to her voice. She rose and began to walk toward him. He found her movement toward him simultaneously threatening and exciting.

"You have nothing to fear, Madam," Snape gasped. With each step she took, he found it more difficult to breathe. He gripped the edge of the table with whitening knuckles in an effort to regain his composure. "Everyone knows by now that I killed Dumbledore. Your name will be cleared quickly by your friends."

"That's not good enough," Rosmerta replied.

Snape dared not look at her; there was strong magic filling the room. He could feel the cold power of a spell binding him like chains.

"_Finite Incantatum!"_ he commanded weakly, pointing his wand in her direction. His mind cleared a bit after doing so, but he still felt as though his will was not entirely his own. Heat seemed to radiate from where she stood, only inches away. Searching in vain for a distraction, Snape mechanically reached for the wine again.

"Where did you get that dress?" he asked for the second time.

"I knew you'd like it, Sevvie," she purred.

At the name, his hand froze with the glass halfway to his lips. He had not been called Sevvie for over twenty years, and he had only granted that privilege to one person.

"Narcissa," he breathed. He could sense Rosmerta's hesitation and looked at her face deliberately.

There was a confused, almost angry look in her eyes, and she was biting hard on her lower lip as if in intense concentration. "I'm not Narcissa Black," she said in a low voice.

"It's Narcissa Malfoy now," Snape replied, beginning to understand the nature of the spell. He had been under it enough as a teenager, but never with such force. The dawning knowledge gave him strength; if she was interested in playing this game, he would meet her challenge.

He stood and faced Rosmerta, reaching for her hand to draw her nearer to him. Her reaction was quite satisfying. For the first time since he had met with her in the attic, Rosmerta seemed at a loss. With her hesitation, the strange hold she had over him lessened, but he still felt an overwhelming desire for her. Perhaps it was a result of the magic, but there was something of sixteen years of loneliness behind it as well.

"I know your game, Narcissa," he whispered in Rosmerta's ear. The scent of roses seemed to waft directly into his brain, confusing him again. His vision began to blur. "This is not real," a strict voice intoned in his mind. "She doesn't really want you, and you would never ordinarily behave in this way."

While his mind sought control, his body seemed to behave independently. Closing his eyes, he slid one hand down Rosmerta's bare back and inhaled her scent deeply. A thrill rushed through him as he felt her trembling slightly in his arms, the top of her curly head just level with his chin.

"Do as I say," she murmured, pressing ghost-soft kisses on his neck. "Do what you desire."

A thousand thoughts and aching desires rushed into Snape's mind at that moment. Pleasures he had resisted for years were now offered to him without hesitation, and with little cost. He merely had to do what Rosmerta told him to.

He gasped suddenly as her cool hands slipped inside his robes, sliding down his chest and belly. Then her lips were hot against his, and he let them linger there for several seconds before pulling back.

"Enough," Snape said with an effort. "Let me be." Fighting back a feeling of intense pain that suddenly flashed behind his eyes, he pushed her away as she reached for him again. Instinct told him that magic would be useless against the power that sought to master him, and that there would have to be some other recourse.

Before Snape could stop her—and unsure of whether he really wanted to—Rosmerta tangled her fingers in his hair and drew his face down to hers. His eyes slid closed and confusion again clouded his mind as she kissed him for the second time. Then he realized that her hand was moving inside his robes. It closed upon his wand. A flash of insight struck him then; groping for his wine glass, he methodically poured the contents down the front of the red gown. He felt his will strengthen immediately, and the pain and whirring in his brain began to subside.

"No!" Rosmerta shrieked, and there seemed to be two voices chiming as one as she screamed again. "No! It mustn't be soiled"

A second later she was covered head to foot with clam chowder. The stolid maid had returned. It was one of the few times in his life that Snape felt completely surprised.

The lumpy woman sobbed as she dropped the empty soup tureen to the floor. "Blond hussy! She wore that dress, and Master Nat hanged himself from the oak. Dirty whore!" The woman collapsed fretfully on Snape's shoulder, soaking his robes with her tears.

Never having been in a situation like this before, Snape was unsure of what to do. He knew he had had a near escape, and the blood was still roaring through his body when he thought of how Rosmerta had touched him. The dress that had made her so alluring seemed dark and ugly now, and hung on her body like a becalmed sail. Its magical virtues were gone. She stood before him as though she was waking from a strange dream, dripping with fishy-smelling liquid, her hair a sopping mess. His suspicions were confirmed as a look of horror began spread across her face.

The maid clinging to his arm had subsided somewhat, and was now blowing her nose on the corner of her apron. "Nat," she murmured in a hiccupping sob. " My Nat."

"What in the fairying forest is going on in here!" bellowed Charles Applethorn from the doorway. He was carrying a fine linen napkin in one fist, and holding his intricately carved wand in the other. The sight of the strange trio cut him off in mid-bellow. "Hester, what is the meaning of this? Go fetch Skilly and Mab and clean up this mess at once!"

The quaking maid retired, presumably to search for the two house elves. Applethorn went to Rosmerta's side and took her hand solicitously.

"My dear, you will dine with me from now on. I can assure you that nothing of this sort happens at Charles Applethorn's table." He gave Snape a wondering look and shook his head. "I didn't expect this of you, Severus. From what Lucius used to tell me, you were of good family and had a head for important affairs. But this—my second best plate, man! And treating a beautiful lady like a common ragamuffin—I'm afraid I'll never understand you British."

As the master of the house gently led Rosmerta from the room, Snape caught her eye and saw that she was frightened and angry. He wondered whether she understood that she had been under a powerful curse. Even he was still not recovered from its effects, although he felt more of his strength returning after she had left.

He returned to her attic quarters, treating the place with a renewed sense of caution. The room was mostly empty, except for large amounts of dust and bits of cast-off furniture and junk. It was surprising that a dandified oaf like Charles Applethorn would keep Dark objects like the magic gown around his well-appointed mansion, but Snape knew that old families often inherited strange and dangerous heirlooms.

The dressmaker's dummy caught his eye immediately, eerie and quasi-human in the dimly lit space. Taking out his wand, Snape dragged it across every curve of the silent wire object, trying to read its secrets. His search revealed nothing; it appeared to be just a harmless form, and the bric-a-brac filling the rest of the room was equally uninteresting. It seemed an unlikely place for a dangerous Dark weapon to be kept.

As he was about to leave, a faint coughing sound froze him in mid-stride. It only took a few moments for him to find Narcissa's portrait, which had been hastily hidden between the mattress and the bed frame.

"Hello, Sevvie," the girl in the portrait simpered. "My, look how old you've gotten! Age has improved your looks, you know," she added quickly. Snape noticed that she was wearing an elegant red dress.

"You know that 'looks,' as you call them, have never been my concern," he said shortly.

"Well, you were always one of my favorites, dear."

Her coy laughter summoned the memory of a skinny, near-sighted, pale boy who was waiting near the Shrieking Shack. Narcissa had promised to meet Snape on that long-ago afternoon, but evening had come and she had never shown up. James Potter and Sirius Black had appeared, however. That had been the night he received his first serious beating at their hands. The memory brought a grim smile to his face.

Narcissa misinterpreted it. "I knew you'd remember the times we shared," she whispered.

Her voice and a glance of her sapphire eyes had once compelled him to do things he would never have ordinarily considered doing. His reward had been her favor, and one night, a few moments alone with her in the Slytherin Common Room. But that had been long ago. In the dusty attic, this thing of paint and canvas seemed only a mockery of sensuality. His cold resolve had returned, and he would not willingly relinquish it to her again.

"You told her to wear the cursed dress, didn't you? Why did you want control over her?"

"She's beautiful—not as beautiful as I am, of course—and I wanted to have some fun. Sevvie, I've been stuck up in this dreadful attic for so long." She put a whining emphasis on the last two words that made Snape want to slap her.

"Since they found out you'd killed Nat Applethorn?"

"Nat Applethorn killed himself," she said calmly. "And his death was never connected to me. No, Vera Applethorn was jealous of my beauty, and had me tossed up here. How Charles could have ever married her is beyond me."

Snape did not find it hard to believe that Charles's flirtations with Narcissa's portrait would have caused his wife to chuck the thing. He suddenly realized that there was a reason Vera Applethorn hired ugly maids.

"And so you poisoned Rosmerta's mind too?" He could see the girl begin to crimson with anger. It made her seem ugly to him.

"I didn't tell her to do anything she didn't want to do already," she snapped.

"You are interfering with something you do not understand."

"Wait until everyone finds out you're hiding that boy here," the girl hissed.

"He's your son, Narcissa."

Snape enjoyed the effect that statement had on the girl. Her fair, translucent skin blanched, then reddened with blotches. It was like watching a confused chameleon.

"But…but I watched him, in his room…" She looked like she was going to be sick, and then straightened and regained her haughty air. "Narcissa Black has no son," she said decisively.

Severus Snape bowed. "Then you know what I have to do." He ignored her pleas and threats as he carried the portrait out into the back garden.

A sliver of moon was beginning to show near the horizon, though the lights from the city overwhelmed the stars. Perched at the edge of town, the Applethorn estate was a tangle of ancient and rare trees from all parts of the world. Overgrown vines bordered the walk, which led toward a grassy area and one of the largest oak trees Snape had ever seen. Beyond the manicured lawn, wrought-iron bars fenced in the hunched and crumbling stones of the family burying ground. There were wild sea grasses, roses, and a slope that led down to the water.

As he walked, Snape remembered something Albus Dumbledore had once told him about his sense of justice. "You uphold righteousness without compassion, Severus. You are just at the expense of your humanity. It is a weakness, something the Dark Powers can easily exploit and twist to their own advantage." The old man's words, like many of his other statements, had been prophetic. Righteousness had turned into revenge, and indignation to narrow-minded vindictiveness.

He felt nothing as the beautiful girl in the painting begged him to release her. He pushed aside thoughts of Narcissa in her adult form, kneeling before him on the sitting-room floor at Spinner's End, pleading with him to save her son. His hands twitched slightly at the memory of her cheek pressed against his hand, and the touch of her tears against his skin, but his heart was not moved. His renewed sense of control reassured him. He felt powerful once again.

On a rocky outcropping Snape made his fire. He didn't need to use wood or oil to start it, but he did anyway; the cool spring night made it pleasurable to build the fire in the traditional way. The dry branches went up quickly, sending sparks flying high into the air. Narcissa Black made no sound as he methodically placed her portrait on top of the conflagration.

Above him, jutting majestically out over the edge of the outcropping, was the ancient oak; it seemed to be officiating an act of justice long overdue. Snape wrapped his cloak firmly around his body and sat in the shadow of the great tree. He watched in thoughtful silence as his fire mingled fraternally with the other beacons that were spread out along the marshy coast.


	5. Chapter 5

"That was the worst spell I have ever been under."

Charles Applethorn stroked Rosmerta's hand. "I never would have expected it of Severus. He doesn't seem the type."

"It wasn't Severus," Rosmerta replied, jerking her hand from his. She briskly explained how she had found the dress in the attic.

"Ah, you found my little vixen," Applethorn chuckled when she told him about Narcissa. "There were plenty of rumors circulating after she made her debut, and my cousin Nat died. If you ask me, she had nothing to do with it. He was a gloomy sort of person all his life, subject to poetry and fits of melancholy and whatnot. I was too young to interest her at the time, but her portrait seems to think quite highly of me."

"Don't trust it, Mr. Applethorn—you should get rid of it at once. It's a dangerous influence."

"Ha! Stay with me, darling, and you'll be safe."

Rosmerta dodged from beneath his arm, although part of her was tempted to stay. He had kindly lent her some of his wife's old clothes, and told her that she didn't have to return to the attic. He had shown her to a small bedroom that happened to be just across the hall from his own. But she wanted none of a married man; she had learned that lesson more than once in the past. Besides, after awakening to discover that she had been throwing herself at Severus Snape, she wanted nothing more to do with men in general for the moment.

"I just need some fresh air," she said quickly, closing the door between them as he made to follow her. She found herself in the garden she had seen from her window, and sighed with relief when she realized that Applethorn wasn't behind her. She needed to be alone. Her one thought was to walk down by the water to try to collect herself.

Rosmerta had never been in such a mansion or garden. She wasn't altogether sure that she liked the sad grandeur of the twisted trees and overgrown flowerbeds. The sight of the towering oak shivered her skin, but the silhouette of the man sitting beneath it stopped her short. Snape was sitting beside a fire, gazing out over the water.

The last person she wanted to see was Severus Snape. From what she could remember of their dinner, her behavior had been completely embarrassing. The worst part had been the fact that it wasn't entirely un-enjoyable; part of her had relished seducing him—the darker, naughtier side that had governed her nature when she was younger. Rosmerta hoped to slip back to the house unnoticed, but he spotted her and called her name.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," she snapped, although she found herself approaching the fire anyway.

"It is necessary that we speak."

Rosmerta found herself profoundly grateful that Snape did not seem to want to discuss the disastrous dinner. If he kept a civil tongue, sharing his fire might be better than returning to the mansion to dodge Applethorn's advances for the rest of the night. Still, after she had been sitting with Snape quietly for several minutes, Applethorn's company seemed more and more appealing. Finally, she felt she had to break the silence.

"I thought you wanted to talk." Rosmerta noticed that the dying fire served to deepen the shadows on Snape's sallow face. She found the effect not entirely unflattering.

"You can't go home," he said softly. "You must stay here and help Draco Malfoy."

Rosmerta snorted and rose from the fireside. "We're not having this conversation," she snapped.

"It will be safer for you here."

"No one is safe around that wretched boy."

"Sit down. I believe once you hear what I have to say, you will agree to what I ask."

Rosmerta hesitated. The only thing she really wanted was to return home safely, and he had made it clear that he was not prepared to offer her that. After much hesitation, she crouched down on the other side of the fire. Snape tossed a few more branches on top of the dying embers, which flared up greedily.

"Draco will be subject to fits of both mental and physical torture in the weeks ahead," Snape continued matter-of-factly. "He will need someone to tend to him during these times. You must do this."

"Hasn't it struck you, Severus, that I might want him to go through some pain? He did place me under the Imperius Curse for quite a while, you'll recall. And I'm no healer. What do I know about tending an ailing Death Eater brat? Less than nothing, that's what."

"I will instruct you in the proper method of making potions that will relieve his pain and anxiety to a small extent."

"But where does this get me? Nursemaid to a viper? Forget it. I'll swim home before I do this for you."

Snape continued as though she had not spoken. "There may come a time when he will desire to return to the Dark Lord's service, but you must not let him go."

"I will not do this."

"Your will has been severely damaged, Rosmerta."

His sudden statement brought her up short. "What?"

Snape sat quietly beneath his tree and stared into the renewed flames as he spoke. "The Imperius Curse gradually diminishes and impairs free will in the long run. Those who are placed under the curse are often all too easy to control after they are freed from it, particularly when they have endured it for great lengths of time. They often find it much more difficult to assert their own wills afterwards, or to follow their own desires. Some become like children, and can only function if they are constantly given direction. Some lose all sense of purpose in life, and end up like the boy who hanged himself from this tree."

Rosmerta laughed, although a shudder ran through her body at his last observation. "Then why is it so easy for me to say 'no' to you right now?" she challenged.

Her laughter died as his black eyes stared into hers intently. He rose and walked to where she was sitting, never dropping his gaze. She stared back in fascination, unable to look away.

"You say no, but your will is ready to respond to outside influences," he said calmly as he drew her to her feet. Rosmerta found herself standing close to him beneath the great tree. A chilly wind had begun to blow off the water. She tried to pull her cloak closed with her free hand, but he quickly claimed it with his own.

"I don't like this."

"You don't have to like it. Remember the dress from the attic, Rosmerta; it was obviously a Dark Object, yet you readily put it on when Narcissa brought your attention to it. Before the curse, you would have had an easier time resisting her suggestions. You would have been able to assert what you wanted."

"I don't want to talk about the dress!" she snapped as her cheeks grew hot.

"Kiss me," he commanded.

"I don't have to do that anymore. I'm free now," she murmured as she found herself, for the third time that night, reaching up to press her lips to his. His hands tightened a bit around hers in response, but he slowly pulled away from her embrace.

"I will not do that again," he said calmly, although she detected an underlying tension in his voice. "I can help you regain your will if you watch over Draco while I am gone. I can instruct you in the arts of restraint and control."

Rosmerta's heartbeat was beginning to return to normal as she considered his words. "I must renounce my will to regain my will," was her unhappy realization.

Snape released her hands and turned back to the fire, feeding it several more branches. "If you wish to live your own life, you must accept this bargain. There is no potion in the world that can give you your will back, no spell. I can teach you how to master it again. I can show you how to regain control."

Rosmerta considered this. She had no reason to doubt his words, as they had just been proven true. She had been independent for nearly her entire life, and the idea that this independence was damaged—that she would be beholden to the whims of others for the rest of her life—was terrifying.

"When will you teach me?" she asked in measured tones.

"I will teach you after the war is decided, not before. I will be a marked man until then and you will not want to be seen with me."

"What if you…don't survive?"

"Then our bargain will be voided. I cannot promise that I will survive, but I've made it this far." A rather disturbing grin twisted his thin mouth as he spoke.

She slumped down by the fire again. "I accept," she said in a small voice. It was a beginning at least.

He nodded. "Go back to the house and sleep. Tomorrow you will begin your duties."

Rosmerta found that his orders calmed her, and knew with a sinking feeling that this was not a good sign. She tried standing still before the fire instead of returning to the mansion, but found that this act of disobedience made her extremely uncomfortable.

The fire suddenly flared, illuminating Snape's sharp profile. "Go," he repeated in low tones. "And lock your bedroom door tonight."

Rosmerta felt relief flood through her body as she fled back through the damp gardens to the brightly lit mansion.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco Malfoy stared off into space while he twisted a much-read letter between his fingers. He did not look up when his door opened and Severus Snape entered.

"How much longer do I have to stay in this room? I'm going crazy in here."

Snape pulled back the window curtain, allowing sunlight to flood into the dim room. He stood in the patch of light he had created, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply as the warmth hit him. "Soon I will be summoned back."

Draco stopped twirling the wrinkled bit of paper and stared directly at his professor. "And what am I to do after you leave?"

"When I am summoned, you will be summoned as well." The Potions Master bowed his head wearily. "And Rosmerta will be here to help you resist."

A tremor seemed to run through Draco's body, but he kept his voice steady and his expression resolved. "How did you talk her into it?"

Snape looked at Draco then, and the boy stepped back almost unconsciously. Snape's face was expressionless; there was no reason Draco should have found him more intimidating than usual. However, something about the Potions Master made Draco want to keep his distance.

"You no longer have a wand. Do not attempt to make her bow to your will. And Draco," Snape continued, stepping closer to the boy and placing his hands on Draco's shoulders, "I advise you to submit to her direction. Do not try to force your desires upon her." His hands imperceptibly tightened upon the boy's body.

Draco's throat bobbed nervously, the only betrayal of his discomfort and wonder. "Yes sir," was his humble reply.

Snape glanced down at the now-forgotten letter. His tone softened. "Your mother."

"Yes, I've had it for a while," the boy replied, clutching the note in pale fingers. "She's in hiding…somewhere…she's told me not to worry, that she is safe from Him…and from her sister."

"This is wise. Your aunt Bellatrix would not hesitate to give away her own blood to please Him." Snape released Draco then, and turned toward the door. Just before departing, he stared at the boy intently. "Soon Applethorn's hospitality will grow thin. I will find a new place for you to hide, but do not speak to him of leaving. I trust him less every day."

"Malfoys don't hide," Draco said bitterly.

"This kind of hiding takes a great deal of courage, Draco." Snape's face was grave.

Draco seemed to have recovered himself a bit. He resumed his characteristically lazy, careless attitude as he fingered the edge of a fine damask bed curtain. "Do you think Applethorn would really give us away? He doesn't seem interested in what's happening back home."

Snape reacted with a sharp, barking laugh. "Applethorn would sell his own mother if it would improve his status or gain him a few galleons. Do not trust him, Malfoy. The sooner you and Rosmerta leave this place, the better."

* * *

Draco was finally sleeping. Rosmerta sat back in exhaustion and twirled a finger through her hair with her remaining nervous energy. This time, the spasms had lasted for nearly an hour; torment to remind the apostate that he had not responded to the summons. She wondered whether war had started at home. She hoped her friends were safe.

She closed her eyes in weariness for a few seconds before leaping to her feet and running to the window. She scanned the street below for the source of the loud banging noise she had heard. A magical explosion? Could Voldemort have found them?

Rosmerta felt her heartbeat begin to return to normal as she noticed two Muggles struggling to start a car, which had smoke pouring from the back end. Her shoulders sagged with relief as the vehicle released another cloud of smoke with a loud bang.

The explosion awakened Draco. He cried out, his eyes unfocused, and stretched a hand toward her. "Is He here?"

"No. Go back to sleep." She tried to make her voice sound calm.

The racking pain of Voldemort's punishment had taken much of the fight out of the boy. He only showed flashes of his old imperious temper at odd moments, and she was surprised to find him docile most of the time. Rosmerta guessed that Draco's worst torture was the idea that the Dark Lord knew that he was alive and in hiding—that he could not hide and flee forever. Still, in spite of his reduced circumstances, the sight of Draco Malfoy continued to make the skin over her spine crawl.

Snape had spent many hours over the past two weeks preparing her to care for Draco. His concern about the boy had surprised her, but she wanted to master her own will too badly to question his motives.

After their conversation by the fire, Rosmerta had returned to her room to think. The more she considered her behavior since awakening in the marsh, the more she realized how right Snape was about her condition. The Imperius Curse had changed her.

The next several days had been strange. The morning breakfast tray brought with it a note from her new teacher: a polite request for her company in the garden just before noon. He had been waiting for her beneath the oak. His manner was civil; he was distant but not cold. He had shown her how to make the first potion that afternoon.

"If Draco lapses into spasms, or if his muscles seize and he cannot move, you must prepare this draught." Snape carefully measured the ingredients in a bright blue flask. A cauldron bubbled nearby over the previous night's campfire. Rosmerta tried to observe every move his deft hands made; with an old quill she filled her bit of parchment with notes.

Afternoon followed long afternoon, and if Rosmerta's attention drifted during their lessons, Snape's sharp voice or the cold grasp of his slender white fingers on her wrist would recall her to her duties. He never reprimanded her or lost patience. She began to realize that she was rather good at preparing potions, perhaps because of the years she had spent carefully brewing and mixing drinks at the Broomsticks.

Apart from her newfound talent at potions, Rosmerta began to discover something else as well: small acts of kindness. One morning she discovered a fresh packet of parchment and a new quill at her bedside. These gifts were followed by a new cauldron, and a mortar and pestle. She knew Snape was responsible, but they never spoke of it.

In spite of the improvements in her relationship with Severus Snape, she still did not feel at ease in Applethorn Mansion. Charles Applethorn was becoming more and more aggressive in his pursuit of her, while his wife Vera looked at Rosmerta with increasingly poisonous eyes. She found her space of safety gradually shrinking, until she barely ventured out of her room at all except for lessons with Snape.

Rosmerta sighed at these memories as she moved back to Draco's bedside. Snape had been a good teacher. She had been able to ease the boy's pain more than either of them had hoped would be possible. Draco was sleeping again, and she was glad. It gave her time to be alone and think.

"Who took care of you?" she had asked Snape one day, her curiosity overcoming their mutually agreed upon silence.

"Dumbledore."

"He made your healing potions?"

"Yes, but he also…he knew how to help me relax and escape from the pain."

"How?" she asked.

He had looked at her then in a strange way. She stared back without lowering her eyes. "Come here," he said.

Obeying, with the knowledge that her obedience might not be all her own doing, Rosmerta moved closer to him. Snape took her by the shoulders and turned her around, so that she was facing away from him. "Close your eyes," he commanded.

She did as she was told. He moved his strong fingers gently across her temples and down the sides of her face to her jaw. Rosmerta's facial muscles instinctively tightened at his touch, although part of her wanted to yield to it.

"Relax."

She found herself obeying again. As he traced gentle circles across her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, and her neck, Rosmerta felt the tension begin to drain from her shoulders and lower back.

"Dumbledore was quite a guy," she said softly. His fingers stopped.

"His methods were effective, but we'd best get back to the lesson," he said stiffly. "This salve helps to sooth the skin around the Mark when it turns raw and black. Now pay attention."

From then on, Snape kept his distance from her. She never saw him at meals, only during their afternoon meetings. If they did pass each other in the halls of the house, he stood back respectfully against the wall to let her walk by him. The space between them seemed to grow, and his manner toward her was as polite and distant as ever.

Hearing Draco moan softly, Rosmerta recalled the task at hand and quietly approached the boy's sleeping form. His white-blond hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his hands were clenched around the sheets. The air in the room was cold, and she threw another blanket over his still body.

Sitting beside him, she twisted her hands in her lap. There was nothing more she could do for Draco; she had applied the healing poultice to his arm, had given him a potion to still his tremors. She had finally administered a tonic that soothed his jarred nerve endings. He moaned again, but did not wake.

Rosmerta stared around the small apartment that Snape had located for them. He had found them a place above a shop run by a Muggle who practiced the arts of Tarot and palm reading. Rosmerta found the whole business completely distasteful, and the odors of incense that permeated the house tended to choke her; however, the palm-reading landlady had been quite taken with Snape and had lowered the price for them.

The apartment was rather spare and overlooked a small brick side street decorated with antique gaslights. From her window, Rosmerta could occasionally see Muggle men and women dressed as wizards and witches passing up and down on the pavement. She found the whole scene quite extraordinary; it kept her from getting too bored in the small two-bedroom unit. Draco, too, had made a habit out of staring out the window. Rosmerta felt something akin to pity for the boy, who could not risk going outdoors for fear of Voldemort's spies.

When Draco was sleeping, Rosmerta occasionally indulged in a walk up and down the street to get some air. She had never seen a city that seemed more open to witches. On more than one occasion she had thought about trying to talk to a Muggle, but never quite got up the courage. She preferred to blend in with them.

In spite of its shortcomings, the apartment over the Tarot studio was far more comfortable than Applethorn Mansion. Rosmerta recalled the last night they had spent there. She had taken to locking her door, although she knew that Charles or Vera could gain entrance if they really wanted to. She had never before felt more keenly her want of a wand as she climbed into bed that night. Charles was becoming more and more aggressive, and Vera more threatening.

She had revealed her concerns to Severus, to her surprise. He was trying to teach her a new potion, and they had been waiting for the cauldron to boil; she broke the silence with her concerns.

"Severus, Charles and Vera scare me. I don't know whether I'm about to be raped or knifed in the back from one moment to the next. I need a wand."

He had looked at her intently. "I've noticed their behavior. Charles is more dangerous than he looks, and Vera was driven mad by jealousy long ago. I will not let anything happen to you."

Snape's tone was flat and not particularly gallant, but Rosmerta felt as though a load of cares had been washed from her soul. It was the first time she had been able to confide in anyone since the Curse. It was a bit unnerving that Snape should be her confidant, but the feeling of release dimmed her prior prejudices.

"Thank you," she said simply.

That night, she had shut and locked her door as usual, and had not been asleep for long before hearing a frightful row in the bedroom across the hall: shouting, doors slamming, and the unmistakable sound and scent of an explosion. She was not prepared for Vera Applethorn's sudden entrance into her room.

The woman had pointed her wand directly in Rosmerta's face. "My husband will never have you," she spat. Rosmerta expected Avada Kedavra to be the last words she would hear, but before the end came, Vera had been disarmed and pinned to the wall with invisible bands.

Snape was sitting on the edge of her bed then, chafing her wrists.

"Thank you," she gasped. "I think we should leave tonight."

"In the morning," he said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. "Try to sleep. Charles has fled the house, and Vera can be confined to her room." It was done, and he settled down to spend the rest of the night in a half-watchful doze in an armchair at the foot of her bed.

"Severus," Rosmerta whispered as she felt herself drifting to sleep.

"What, Rosmerta?"

"I don't think I can touch Malfoy's head the way you touched mine. I…I don't want to touch him."

"That is up to you, Rosmerta. Potions can be learned, but you must desire to be compassionate in order to show compassion." He was silent for a moment. "Many times I have chosen not to be. It is not in my nature."

His words kept her awake longer than she would have wanted. They had haunted her thoughts ever since their last night in the Mansion. She recalled what Snape said on the day that he left.

"I am returning to England today, Rosmerta."

"Have you been summoned? Is He calling you?"

"No, but I feel it will be soon. You know enough now to manage Draco's pain, and I believe you trust me to uphold my end of the bargain?"

"If you…survive. Yes. I believe you will teach me what you know about regaining control over my will."

"You are already learning to make your choices your own. When we meet again, it will be a simple matter I think."

Rosmerta shifted uncomfortably. "Are you going to bid Draco farewell?"

"I've had a long talk with him this morning. He's afraid, Rosmerta, more than anything. I've taken his wand away from him for your sake, but I want you to have this." Snape pulled a long, delicate box from inside his robes and opened it, revealing a new wand.

"Maple, with unicorn hair. Not much, but it was the best I could find in this town, and I do not want to leave you unarmed—particularly with Vera and Charles Applethorn in the neighborhood." His lips curled into a grimace. "Perhaps we'll get lucky and they'll kill each other off. In any case, you should not leave the apartment unless you absolutely have to. You should never let Draco leave, and this wand will help you to enforce your will if need be. He knows what I expect of him, and he knows what will keep him safe."

Rosmerta extended her hand and took the wand from him, noticing that he flinched when her fingers brushed against his. "You really trust me," she said carefully. "What if I decide to desert Malfoy and return to Hogsmeade?"

"You will do the right thing," he said offhandedly. "I must go, now. You will not be able to contact me. You are on your own."

As he turned to leave, Rosmerta reached out and took his arm. "That wasn't an adequate goodbye."

Snape raised his brows again, and his eyes widened when Rosmerta reached up and gently kissed the corner of his mouth and the edge of his jaw.

"For luck," she said shyly. He nodded. Without taking his eyes from her, he Disapparated.

Their parting kiss had been almost fraternal. There was nothing in it of the bewitched passion from the night of their failed dinner together. It had been different from the kiss he had commanded her to perform. It was the first time their lips had met on equal terms.

Rosmerta thought about this kiss as she sat by Draco's bedside. She wondered what her next meeting with Snape would be like. The war could not last forever, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could remain in hiding in this close attic space with a boy she had only recently learned not to loathe. Nothing about it felt particularly safe. Suddenly, Draco cried out in great distress. He thrashed about as though he was having a bad dream.

"Mother!" he screamed.

"It will be over soon, Draco," she soothed, but his screams continued until she thought his throat must be bleeding. What must the Muggle downstairs think of this noise?

Hesitating a moment, Rosmerta reached forward and began to stroke the hair back from his temples. Following the movements Snape had shown her, she traced soothing lines down his temples, across his quivering cheekbones, and over his tightened jaw. Almost imperceptibly, Draco's tortured features began to relax. The screaming and flailing died into whimpers, and then into silence as he settled exhausted into the reprieve of dreamless sleep.

"It will be over soon," she repeated softly.

_THE END_


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